


The Piemaker and The Boy

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Pushing Daisies
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Baking, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dark Comedy, Deception, Happy Ending, Hospitals, Humor, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inappropriate Humor, Loneliness, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, References to Depression, Resurrection, Runaway Eric Bittle, Runaway Jack Zimmermann, Secrets, Self-Destruction, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, canon-typical angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-12
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7176812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AKA the Zimbits Pushing Daisies AU)</p><p> <i>'Eric did a bad thing. He kept him.</i></p><p><i>He never meant to. It was just...he wasn’t supposed to do anything like this but then came along this...</i> Canadian<i> with his sad eyes and he was all alone - and so was Eric. And Eric had just </i>brought someone back from the dead<i> and who knows what kind of chaos that information would bring, right? So he told Jack to run and Jack did, just like that, just because he asked.'</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Piemaker and The Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in one sitting because as soon as I had the idea, it wouldn't let me go.  
> Unbetaed, new to Zimbits.  
> Please be kind.

Eric never meant to.

When he was little, and he found out what he could do, he’d been terrified. MooMaw had called it ‘a gift’, but Eric always thought gifts were something great like being able to eyeball a quarter cup of shortening without having to waste time measuring it, or being able to dance if you were given the right beat - hell, something you could even _return_ \- but this didn’t seem that way to him. Bringing people back - because that’s what it was; people were gone, and then they were _back -_ never seemed like the great thing you see in movies or TV or read in the Bible. There’s no great mercy. Lots of times, people are at peace. Sure, maybe they’re gone too soon, or maybe it’s a shock to everyone, but what’s the difference when it’s done? If they all go to the same place, who is Eric to go dragging them back to life, where they’ve got to pay taxes and get flu shots and clip their toenails?

No ma’am, he decided a long time ago that he’s got no business messin’ around with things like that. If something dies, well then... it’s meant to be.

___

He first saw The Boy at the park on his way to work. 

Eric had been been pulling sixty-hour weeks for over a month now, what with Mr Johnson’s illness and all, and in his rush, he’d been struck by the stillness. The Boy had been sitting quietly on a bench, coat zipped against the cold and hat pulled to his brow, just _being_ , and, well. Eric couldn’t remember a time lately when he’d been able to do that: just be. Since the blowout with Coach and cashing out his inheritance from MooMaw and leaving home and moving to the city getting the job with the bakery...he guesses he hadn’t really stopped. He did that day, though. Eric stopped and looked, because those were the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, and sometimes it was just nice to look at something pretty.

(He didn’t notice how sad they were, or how they didn’t really look at anything. Just stared out from that handsome face, hollow and alone, hoping for answers... but then, he was pretty darn tired.)

___

Times when being able to resurrect the dead is useful: accidental animal vehicular homicide; saving money on flower arranging; salvaging over-ripe fruit when baking pies.

Things that cannot be revived: crappy dates, Paris Hilton’s career, and the dead if Eric touches them a second time after resurrection. 

Seriously. He can’t touch anyone he’s brought back already or they drop like a fly. Oh, and also, if he brings someone back for longer than a minute, then some other poor sucker dies in their place. Yep, really. Didn’t he say it was a bad idea to go upsetting the balance and all? Bad. Idea.

__

The Boy must live closeby. Eric sees him a lot, now that he’s noticed him. Sometimes he wonders how he ever _failed_ to notice. The boy has dark hair - Eric knows that now that the weather is getting milder - and great shoulders. His butt is pretty special too, but Eric can be forgiven for missing that since The Boy spends a lot to time sitting on this one bench. 

He’s always either in the park by the pond or at the bookstore near the bakery where Eric works. 

He always looks distracted, and he never answers his phone, even though it rings a lot.

Eric thinks he’s beautiful, even if he never smiles.

__

Mr Johnson was taken in for observation, and Eric figured he kind of owed it to him to go visit, with all he’d done by giving Eric a job and a room to rent and all.

That thing about always noticing The Boy? Eric doesn’t know if he was ever capable of passing his room. Maybe it was some path the universe put them on, always headed for each other, but one second Eric was looking to find Mr Johnson and the next he was there standing in the doorway of a private room and The Boy... The Boy is pale and he’s hooked up to a bunch of machines and Eric _knows_ he’s tall because he once pressed his hand to the imprint of The Boy’s left in the snow and it fit perfectly inside, but right now he looks small and alone and tiny.

He doesn’t _lie_ when the nurse asks if he’s a friend - unless nodding can be counted as a lie - but Eric’s heart is in the hollow of his throat when she asks. He’s seen so many things wither up in his life but this seems more wrong than any of them.

The Boy mixed something with something else and she doesn’t say the word _overdose_ but Eric feels like it’s hanging in the air, hovering over the bed where The Boy is pale and still. 

It’s while they’re talking that the machine wails.

TheBoy is flatlining and the nurse _runs_ and Eric doesn’t think - he reaches out and touches him, just a shocked brush of his hand to his brow of _not yet_...and the wail turns to a beep.

The eyes are even more blue up close when they open and The Boy rasps, _“Où suis-je?”_

____

 

Looking back, his actions don’t make sense. He’d panicked, and Jack - _Je suis Jack, qui êtes vous? -_ had only seemed to be able to speak French, so Eric did a bad thing. 

He kept him.

He never meant to. It was just...he wasn’t supposed to do anything like this but then came along this... _Canadian_ with his sad eyes and he was all alone - and so was Eric. And Eric had just _brought someone back from the dead_ and who knows what kind of chaos that information would bring, right? So he told Jack to run and Jack did, just like that, just because he asked.

He lies to himself at first and says he doesn’t think it really matters. Until he finds out that Mr Johnson died and the bakery is his now (the universe needs balance, after all).

And Jack doesn’t seem to actually remember anything - like, at all - and Eric figures that if he did...what he _did_ to end up in the hospital... then maybe he’s better off not knowing. 

___

Lardo knows, and Lardo judges. 

She works part-time on weekends, mostly making coffee and sitting at the table closest to the counter working on her sketches.

She stays late and does the accounts too - because she’s kind of a genius - and she once caught Eric bringing a bag of apples back to their best. He’d tried to explain it away, but it hadn’t worked, and she agreed to keep his secret if she could base a graphic novel on his power some day, and also because she’s ‘not a total dick’. 

She takes one look at Jack when Bitty introduces them, and it’s like she knows exactly what happened _._

“He’s not some random dude,” she tells him later, sliding her phone across his bench. 

Jack’s been with them three days now, mostly reading some of Mr Johnson’s old books that were shelved in the office. He sits where he can see Eric, and sometimes he smiles when Eric forgets himself and sings along with the radio, and those times Eric feels like he’s just completed a marathon. Sometimes he makes small talk with the customers, or asks Lardo about her drawings, or stares out the window, and seems to be at peace.

At night Eric sleeps on the couch and stares at the ceiling and tries not to think about Jack in his bed or wonder what the hell he’s doing.

(The blind trust Jack seems to have in him is the most jarring. Eric tells him that he was in an accident, that they don’t really know each other, but about what happened at the hospital. He takes a wilted flower out of one of the window boxes to demonstrate, and Jack goes quiet for just a few minutes before accepting it. Just like that.

“It means I can’t ever touch you, not even on accident.”

“Okay,” Jack shrugs.

“Because if I do, you’ll die, for real this time,” Eric presses.

“I understand,” Jack responds, then smirks, “Why, were you planning on touching me a lot?”

 _Oh,_ Eric thinks, feeling himself flush, _that’s so not fair.)_

There’s an article open on the screen of Lardo’s phone that says,

_NHL DRAFT TIP JACK ZIMMERMANN MISSING AFTER HOSPITALIZATION_

And Eric’s stomach drops.

“I...” he looks up at Lardo. “I didn’t know.”

“I know,” she says sincerely. “But this is a big deal.”

Eric reads through the article, gut winding tighter with each paragraph: _famous parents arrived at hospital too late_ , _hockey wunderkind,_ _rumoured substance abuse, buckled under the pressure of expectation..._

“Is it true?” Lardo asks, bringing him back to the moment. “What it says he was in the hospital for?”

Eric looks away, swallows. He nods.

Her expression turns thoughtful, and she looks at Jack where he’s holding a one-sided conversation with a chatty four-year-old. Eric knows she’s thinking the same thing: _is he better not knowing?_

___

Of course, he isn’t. The mystery of _Bad Bob Zimmermann’s Son_ is press fodder for weeks, and every single day Eric wakes up determined, _today, I’m gonna tell him_. But then Jack will sneak a taste of Eric’s pie filling or take to calling him _Bitty_ with his French inflection when he learns of the old nickname from his MooMaw, and Eric thinks _tomorrow._

And every day there’s footage or pictures of Jack Zimmermann, Missing Future Hockey Pro everywhere. Eric sees the side of Jack the world sees - the focused athlete, the media-coached trust-fund kid, the guy practically born with skates on his feet, and he wonders why the Jack he saw in the months before the overdose never looked anything like that. The Boy was hollow, and worn, and he didn’t look like he loved what he was doing any more than Bitty loved being in a town where he couldn’t truly be himself.

So Bitty convinces himself that it’s right - that Jack wasn’t happy; if he was, he wouldn’t have done what he did, right? Maybe it’s the way out he’d needed. His second chance - and Eric gave that to him. He didn’t _steal_ him; stealing would be _wrong._ This doesn’t feel _wrong._

And every extra day he gets to spend with him, he falls a little bit harder. They edge closer to each other and find ways around the no-touching; breath on cheeks, a hover of hands not-quite held, the transfer of warmth over a table just to feel _presence_ , or on one memorable occasion when Jack stole a roll of plastic wrap from Bitty’s hand and held it between them, pretending they could really kiss if they wanted to.

Jack’s hands are big and nice and Eric thinks about how they would feel on him a lot. Lifting and grabbing and _holding_ in place...but those are thoughts for the dark of night that don’t do anybody any good when you’re sitting across the breakfast table from one another. He asks Jack to pass the syrup and hates himself for the thrill that the heat of his hand gives.

__

It gets a little ridiculous hiding a whole person away. They don’t watch television because of the news, but Jack doesn’t remember liking it very much anyway so he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t miss the internet and says he feels like he always wanted to read more but never got the chance, so he does. Eric gets sick of his heart jumping every time someone looks twice at the broad-shouldered off-duty model haunting the quiet tables of their bakery-cafe, but he’s lucky they don’t get a lot of unfamiliar faces stopping by. Most of the regulars have gotten used to and dismissed his presence already.

Bitty’s excuses are wearing thin by late summer. It’s a little odd that Jack doesn’t even seem to notice or care, but Bitty’s not gonna look a gift horse in its baby blues.

He finds him on the front steps, latest book forgotten on his lap as he watches some neighbourhood kids play street hockey. Bitty’s blood runs cold. The longing on the guy’s face is positively palpable, and that’s before he even talks.

“I used to play hockey,” Jack says. He whispers it thoughtfully, as if it’s not entirely for Bitty’s benefit. “I was good at it.”

 _This is it_ , Bitty thinks. What’s he supposed to do, lie to him? Tell him he’s mistaken?

With a heavy heart, he sits down too. “Jack...” he croaks, mind screaming _no._ “There’s something you should know.”

He knows the next words out of his mouth will mean he loses Jack forever. He knows there’s no defending what he did; the lie and the deception and the avoidance - but who even is Jack Zimmermann without hockey?

(Bitty knows. He’s easy smiles and quiet reflection. He’s obscure history facts that he doesn’t even remember reading and asking kids about their drawings and crowding Bitty against a counter with a smile that could melt butter by sheer proximity. He’s _free -_ but he’s not whole, not really.)

Bitty can’t claim to care about someone and keep something like this from them.

__

When Jack says he needs to take a walk, Bitty lets him go.

__

The wait is agony. Lardo is annoyingly pragmatic, but proud.

“You did the right thing,” she says. “Even if you feel like crap right now.”

“That’s an understatement,” Bitty mutters, head heavy on his hand. They’re sitting in the cafe with the lights on, just in case Jack loses track of time and comes back there first instead of going upstairs to the apartment. Worry hasn’t quite set in yet - not for Jack’s safety, anyway.

“I have some rum in my purse,” she offers helpfully, and Bitty actually considers it before there are footsteps outside the door and a knock. He doesn’t even remember running to it before he yanks it open. 

Jack looks beaten in a way he hasn’t in months, and Eric doubts the merits of telling him all over again.

“I called Shitty,” Jack says robotically, then blinks. “He’s my best-- he’s coming here to get me.”

“Okay,” Bitty says, hating that he can’t read Jack’s eyes. “Do you want me to...”

“I’ll go.”

The silent moments it takes Jack to pack up his meagre belongings are the longest since he first told him the truth about who he was. Lardo wipes down tables as Bitty shifts his weight, and then the sound of Jack descending the stairs makes them straighten. 

In the door frame, Bitty is struck anew by the stature of him. Jack has an athlete’s build, and he holds himself like one. His bone structure is flawless in a way ‘normal’ people just _aren’t_. He’s like Old Hollywood and Boy Next Door - and he’s leaving.

Another knock makes them turn, but this time the person doesn’t wait. A man with long hair and a painter’s brush moustache sweeps into the room and gathers Jack up like he weighs nothing.

“Holy shit brah, don’t _ever--_ ”

“Shits it’s--”

“Shh, just let me... shhh...”

Jack slumps. “...Alright.”

The hug extends for long moments, and then the man - _Shitty, did Jack call him?_ Is pulling back to tenderly turn his jaw this way and that.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I thought I told you to call me _no matter what?_ ” Shitty scolds unhappily, before backhanding Jack on the chest. “Fuck, man... what the fuck?”

Lardo clears her throat noisily.

“Oh, sorry,” Shitty says, stepping back. “It’s just been kind of hell. You are?”

“Lardo.”

His expression does a complicated jump before he holds out his hand to shake hers. Then, he turns to Eric. 

“And you must be--”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Bitty blurts. “I just... I don’t know.” He feels heavy in a way he hasn’t since moving to the city, and he hasn’t missed the sensation. He doesn’t want to bring up the _you might have been trying to hurt yourself_ thing, but it’s implied.

“It’s okay.” Bitty looks up in shock at the fact that it’s _Jack_ who says it. He’s standing partially behind Shitty still, staring pensively at the ground. “I don’t think I was trying very hard to remember, anyway.”

Shitty turns fully to face him, but Eric gets the impression he’s not totally surprised by the confession.

“I had this feeling like... relief,” Jack tells the ground. “Like there was this great pressure just lifted, and I felt free.” He looks up to Shitty for confirmation.

“I figured you needed a breath,” Shitty agrees. “I wasn’t too spooked until the hospital thing, to be honest.”

“I don’t think I was _trying_ ,” Jack continues, lost in recollection. “I think I just wanted... wanted to escape, you know?” Shittys hands look tight on Jack’s shoulders and Bitty’s throat aches.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go back?” Lardo asks. Bitty’s glad he’s not the one to have to do it. Jack hasn’t looked right at him in _hours_ now and it’s opening this void in him that he doesn’t trust not to sound like he’s begging. He would be, if he started to talk.

“It’s time,” Jack says. 

So that’s it.

What stings the most is that he doesn’t even say goodbye. He just leaves, like he hasn’t turned Bitty’s world into something else just by existing; like Bitty won’t have to see him on the news for the next week, or years from now on a highlight reel. Like Bitty can just _forget_ him.

As the door closes behind Jack, there’s something collapsing within Eric, but he didn’t come this far to collapse, and collapsing is what you do when there’s nobody around to see.

...

When the world narrows to that raw feeling of loss, he doesn’t even notice the door springing back open, or heavy steps over the threshold. It’s not until huge, warm hands cup his face, and there are chapped lips on his own that Bitty sucks in a breath and pulls away, those unmistakeable eyes closer than ever before.

“Jack! What’re you? _How_ are you--” He steps back, panic rising. “Are you _out_ of your _mind?_ ” he yells, trying to get as far away as possible. Jack simply smiles, serene and _kiss-drunk_ and _oh my god._

“I had to...”Jack simply says, “It was worth the risk... to know.”

Eric’s stomach backflips. “You’re _completely--_ ”

Jack is kissing him again, and the sentence is lost to that. Lost to the feeling of Jack’s lips, the _realness_ of the sensation, the taste of coffee on his breath and the clammy palms of the hands holding Eric’s cheeks gently, gently still. Like he’s _nervous._

When they pull apart, Jack lets out a sigh. “Maybe kissing doesn’t count?” he says dopily, and Shitty barks a laugh.

“You romantic asshole,” he says from the doorway. 

“Or he was never truly...you know,” Lardo theorizes. “Heart monitors just monitor heart rate. Doesn’t mean anything. Or maybe you were there at the right moment. Maybe everything else - Mr Johnson - was coincidence.”

“You mean,” Bitty frowns, shaking the thought free. “We coulda been..”

“Who cares?” Jack says contentedly, nosing along Bitty’s cheek. “I’m still... if you still.”

“I still,” Bitty replies urgently. “But this _whole time_ we coulda been--” 

“Then stop wasting time,” Jack interrupts. He yanks Bitty back in for another kiss, deciding to get right to it. 

Behind them, they hear the front door opening, as Shitty says, “I know I’m one to talk, but what kinda name is Lardo?” and her laugh in return.

 _MooMaw,_ Eric thinks, tilting his head as Jack backs him up to the counter, _it finally feels like a gift._

**Author's Note:**

> I am [omgsterekplease](http://omgsterekplease.tumblr.com) on Tumblr and the fandom-smoosh URL kind of says it all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Piemaker and The Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8087926) by [PhagePods (DancingDragon42)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingDragon42/pseuds/PhagePods)




End file.
